STOCKHOLM — An airline employee who slipped me a note, a black elk burger, a Taliban cab driver who was not a fan of America, and a poor Hindi woman hobbling through the airport after I may have broken her foot.

Hey hey.

The final 12 hours in Sweden were far more personally eventful than the first five days. Still, in fairness, the assault I committed was the woman’s fault as she stood mere inches directly behind me as I retrieved my items from the security belt. Despite my lobbying efforts, the EU has thus far failed to enact short people reforms in which you all must wear go-kart flags at all times.

And I did more to thin the herds of reindeer, moose, and elk than most, too.

Tack (thank you), Stockholm. It was a week to remember.

The air is heavy in Stockholm. The cold air and thick moisture made it hard to breath when walking to the arena. My lungs aren’t pro sports grade to begin with, and the 10-pound air made my legs burn when I walked to the arena and up the several staircases on the way.

The first thing to know about Stockholm is they keep short hours. They eat dinner on time and the bars and restraurants are dark by 9 or 10 p.m. Tough luck if you need a snack, a proper later dinner, or otherwise are tired of your hotel room which is begining to bear the results of a meat filled, candy augmented diet and dirty clothes.

And they often don’t take American Express.

One thing the Swedes do that is far superior to the U.S is they show up. No one is on their phone. They sit and talk and communicate, nary a phone in sight. They make eye contact and are aware of their surroundings. That is pretty glorious.

Sure, there are also plenty of stereotypes about the Swedish people, and some are true, including the 6-foot-2, very blonde woman sitting beside me on the flight home while I type.

Men definitely have the better end of the dating pool in Sweden. By wide margin.

The people are welcoming. Hey, or hey hey is the greeting, and it is better to say something in English first before they begin speaking in Swedish. It saves that awkward, “Hi, I’m an American,” part of the conversation, but everyone speaks English with passing competence or fluently.

As for the note? The airline employee who checked me in before security recognized me when I had to give her my email address. Not that she is a fan or regular reader, but she was following the Global Series; her younger brother appears to be a solid prospect for the 2026 Draft, and she wanted me to take a look.

Maybe she confused me with a Penguins scout? After checking me in, I saw her again at the gate, where she doubled as the gate agent. She had a folded handwritten note with his name and team waiting for me.

She was only about 5-foot-8 … and blonde. But alas, no phone number. The men do have the better of the dating pool there, but the women aren’t blind, eh?

The Swedes are polite and helpful, but not to be confused with small-town Canadians who will take the piss out of you and become your friend. No, humor is not in the Swedish wheelhouse.

A nice pair of boots, dark pants, a puffy coat, or a longer wool coat, and a touque are standard fashion for men. The women either share that style or are quite put together with an upscale modesty. You don’t see anyone in sports jerseys, sweat pants, or general sloppiness.

I blended immediately.

I was already enamored, but then I noticed hot dogs were the preferred lunch on the go. I nearly proposed to the first well-dressed woman I saw bounce out of the little bodega with a full dressed dog. Then I saw a dozen more.

The hot dogs are quite good over there. It speaks to the quality of Swedish food–the food isn’t a mashup of processed garbage and chemicals. It’s … real food. The purity of the hot dog was immediately obvious to this connoisseur.

Sure, there are some regrets as I depart. No, I don’t much care that I didn’t get to the Nobel Prize museum, but I also didn’t have time to get to the Vasa–a 1600s Swedish warship that was designed like a Spanish galleon, but was overly designed and too top-heavy. It made it about 130 meters offshore… and sank in bad weather. They discovered it in 1956 and raised it five years later. I suppose it’s their Sproose Goose.

The Food

Sweden is not a culinary epicenter, but the traditional dishes are quite interesting and really, really good.

They like candles. Even the NYA Carnegie microbrewery on the water in southern Stockholm near my hotel had candles. So, be careful and don’t barge in like an oaf and whip off your coat haphazardly.

Unless you’re not flammable.

Old Town

I chose my restaurants in part based on seating availability but entirely based on menu. I can have Italian food anywhere. No, I wanted Swedish food. The more traditional, the better.

After getting shut out and going without dinner on Night 1 because a 24-hour travel cycle of airplane snacks and airport grabs had sated me until after 10 p.m., Day 2 was what I thought was Old Town, but instead it was a nice little enclave known as Stanstull.

There was a pool hall, a punk bar, four Irish bars, and, oddly, about a half dozen optometrists. The locals were heavily invested in a women’s soccer match, but I found a seat in one of the Irish pubs and had what translated to “Cushy Steak” and noodles. They sang and chanted, and I enjoyed every moment. The mushrooms and cognac on the cushy steak gave it a beef burgundy sort of flavor, but the spices on the meat and noodles added a Mediterranean balance.

Interesting and amazing.

Day 3 was finally the time to get to Old Town and the 700-year-old streets and alleyways. After walking all around the little island between the south end and downtown Stockholm, up and down the cobblestone streets, I found my spot on top of the hill.

The reindeer in black currant at the King’s Restaurant in the shadow of the royal palace was nothing short of amazing. In a small place with real stone floors and stone arches, the food arrived and the owner checked on me often–I was excited to try the reindeer, but expressed some trepidation.

At a small candlelit table, I dined like royalty.

As the tourists traversed the wide street just a few meters away, I rolled around the corner into a narrow alley not much wider than the width of two people, and saw a heavy iron door that was slightly ajar. I peered in and saw medieval steps and a dark basement cafe.

My first and only thought was, “How do I not check this out?”

I mean, I hoped it was a cafe, but for all I knew it was one of those underground Swedish sex clubs. I mean, I mostly hoped it was a cafe. I wasn’t really dressed for the latter.

I crawled down the narrow 700-year-old stone staircase with a barely 5-foot-high ceiling into a brick tomb, which was once the prison for a king slayer. Once in the bottom, the ceilings were a few feet higher, and with fireplaces providing most of the light in the main lounge. Contrary to what my English friends told me, Stockholm is not an expensive city. My Irish coffee, as I chatted with the owner as the only patron was a mere $13.

Stockholm prices were not much different than Pittsburgh. Usually less than New York or the left coast.

Day 4 was Game Day. I made the mile walk back and forth twice, wheezing and gasping for air while the blond giants brushed past.

Day 5. Saturday. My tweet about my meal went viral as it seemed half the country debated the side dishes (The tweet is nearing 200,000 views as of publishing). After destroying the plate of reindeer (but I didn’t eat the glowing red ball that looked like a nose), I had moose meatballs Saturday.

Again, I chose a quiet little spot that looked like everyone’ grandma owned it after being summarily dismissed from two other spots because I lacked a reservation. The candlelight dinner was good, though not great. The dish came with potatoes, pickled beets, and fresh pickles. And then my tweet went viral.

I received one death threat for being in the country and some criticism for not knowing I was supposed to have lingonberry jam or lingonberries with the meatballs. I just sat down and ordered–I didn’t make the menu. Sorry.

Again, I was the only person in the restaurant for some time. That was pretty glorious, though the server, who looked EXACTLY like Ruth in Ozard (Julia Garner), wasn’t very interested in service. She sat at the table next to me, slowly eating soup and talking to the bartender of the pub in the back.

After I was done, I placed my silverware on my plate and sat back. She didn’t budge. I placed the unused silverware on my plate. She didn’t budge. I placed the silverware, the unused silverware, and my napkin on my plate. She didn’t budge.

I was bemused. Since people in Stockholm don’t tip, I didn’t mind much. It was a game–how long would it be before she asked me if I wanted the dessert or the check? Some 10 minutes later, we had movement.

But I wanted one of those chocolate balls on the counter behind me. A deep Swedish chocolate, fried in butter, and sprinkled with coconut. Now, I’m not a big coconut guy–it’s not the taste, it’s the consistency–but that thing was life-changing.

Day 6 was a game day, and the security guard at Avicii Arena informed me that if I were hungry, there might be a Subway open. Uh, pass.

And on Day 7, following the Penguins’ win, I ventured into downtown to find a sports bar to see if I could catch the rest of the Steelers game. No dice on that, so I watched on my phone at a little place called the Black Elk Saloon. I knocked down an Elk burger and a royal imperial lager. Or three lagers. They were really good.

Another oddity: In Sweden, I could drink a lot more without feeling the slightest effect. I expected the opposite. Perhaps the purity of the ingredients?

The Elk burger was average. The Steelers pulled away. So, I hopped on the nearby metro train, which whisked me to within a half mile of my hotel … and here I am hitting “Publish” somewhere in a Heathrow Airport frequent flyers lounge as my 24-hour travel day is only a few hours old.

Thank you, PHN+ subscribers. Thank you, NHL PR. And if you ever go to Stockholm, I pretty well figured out the geography. Hit me up.

There have been a few places I didn’t want to leave. Edmonton kind of fits me. Halifax really fit my blue-collar diet and joy in tilting a pint with a dozen strangers who want to talk hockey, but Stockholm was epic. Women approached me at the arena because I had an American accent.

C’mon, that alone made me want to cancel my return flight. But alas, who else would ask Kris Letang if they tried to make the game boring to protect the lead or tell Anthony Mantha that his game has similarities with Evgeni Malkin, to which he dryly replied, “I hope that’s a compliment.”

It was a week that didn’t need to be. The games didn’t accomplish much, and neither game was a sellout. Fans in Pittsburgh largely yawned. But if you’re going, go. If you’re doing, do.

And that I did.

The Penguins earned three of four points. Sergei Murashov had his first shutout. I ate reindeer. It serves them right for running over Grandma. And I talked to tall, beautiful women, yet I still boarded that flight.

See you at home.

Tags: dan kingerski

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